


Too Sudden Was Our Parting

by katabasis (aphorat)



Category: BUCK-TICK
Genre: Domestic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 01:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14344893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphorat/pseuds/katabasis
Summary: In which a computer undergoes a meltdown, and Imai follows close behind.





	Too Sudden Was Our Parting

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on a blog post of Imai's from August 2013, in which his computer stops working and he (understandably) goes off the deep end, just a little. Poor sod.

When Atsushi walks past Hisashi and sees him staring at his computer screen like he's in a trance, he doesn't think much of it at first. The guitarist is prone to spacing out and often spends hours at a time in front of his computer. They're practically inseparable in the early stages of recording, because it's where he uploads the rough beginnings of new songs and catalogs them for future use. He pauses though, when he sees the peculiar look in Hisashi's eyes. A little crazed, a little overwrought—and then he notices Hisashi's fingers, curling and uncurling habitually atop the keyboard.   
  
"Um," Atsushi begins as he stands there in the doorway, but then Yokoyama comes hurrying up to him, shaking his head and waving his hands like he's saying  _no, stop do not engage. Don't make the same mistake as me._  
  
Hisashi looks up momentarily to give Atsushi a long, mournful look, then returns to staring at the computer screen as if waiting for a miracle, loading wheel reflected in his eyes.   
  
"Imai-san's computer crashed," Yokoyama whispers after he's gestured Atsushi further down the hall, and he looks stressed too, fingers raking aimlessly through his hair as he lets out a long exhale. "We have backups stashed away somewhere and I've already got something lined up with a repair shop I frequent, but it's still... well. He's upset, obviously."  
  
"Ah," Atsushi says, glancing back into the room where Hisashi is—rather aggressively—jabbing at the space bar with a spindly index finger.   
  
"Shit," mutters Yokoyama, scrambling back to Hisashi with a call of "wait, don't  _do_  that!" He reaches down and swats his hand away (it's a bold move; Atsushi's impressed), then sighs, patting Hisashi's hunched shoulder. "That won't help matters, just take a break for now, okay? We'll pick up your replacement tomorrow and get things sorted, but for the time being let's call it a day, yeah? I'll buy drinks tonight, even."  
  
Yokoyama, Atsushi decides, deserves some sort of medal for tonight's performance. A Purple Heart, is that it? Something like that, at any rate. The one for valor in the line of fire.   
  
"Thanks, but I think I'm gonna go home and see if there's anything I can salvage on my desktop," Hisashi mumbles, and the grin he tries to offer Yokoyama is more of a pained grimace. He stands, powering off his lagging computer and walking over to Atsushi in the doorway, index finger hooking in the collar of his t-shirt. "Come home with me," he bids, and Yokoyama has the good sense to look away and busy himself with tidying the studio as Atsushi urges close and follows him out of the building.   
  
He drives them to Hisashi's while the guitarist, silent in the passenger seat, types away on his phone. At a stop light he steals a glance at the screen and sees a half-written blog post, which is a good sign. He may be upset, but he isn't upset enough to  _not_  bitch about it online. It isn't long before they arrive at the house; it's late in the evening, and they've missed the worst of the traffic. Hisashi is already pocketing his phone and making his way to the kitchen, and Atsushi, after toeing off his shoes, moves into the hallway to crank the air conditioning. It's warm, and if Hisashi's about to get creative in the kitchen it'll only get warmer.   
  
Atsushi finds him rummaging through his pantry, fishing out a bag of dry noodles and tossing them onto the island. When he walks by he presses his lips briefly to Hisashi's neck, then crosses the kitchen to retrieve glasses and a bottle—on second thought, two bottles—of wine. He settles on a counter stool and pours the wine, then watches Hisashi as he stress-cooks what might be a variant of yakisoba with egg, spinach and a large helping of curry paste.   
  
They're almost down one bottle by the time they finally eat. Hisashi's still quiet, but makes an acquiescent grunt when Atsushi comments that somehow, dinner tastes great; but then he mutters something about cursing everything he touches, and unceremoniously pours the last of the wine into his empty glass. Atsushi rolls his eyes and smiles at him in a long-suffering way, because _he's_ supposed to be the dramatic one, not Hisashi. They sit and drink for a while longer, and the silence is comfortable enough.   
  
Hisashi slumps off not much later to mess around on his computer, and Atsushi takes care of the dishes before joining him. He drapes himself against the guitarist lightly, one arm looping around his shoulder while the other settles on the armrest. Hisashi glances back at him, having the good grace to look mildly abashed. "I'm sure it'll be fine," he concedes, scrolling through the last of his files and minimizing the window. "It's just, you know. Fucking irritating."   
  
"I understand," Atsushi says with a smile, and he means it. They've known each other for thirty years, and the understanding that comes with decades of familiarity is almost preternatural at this point. The singer curves forward to kiss him, long and lingering, and Hisashi allows himself to be urged first to his feet, then down the hallway leading to his bedroom.   
  
"Today was shit," Hisashi breathes as Atsushi pauses near the closet to shed his clothes, but when Atsushi chuckles softly at his declaration it's infectious and soon Hisashi is joining in despite himself, laughing at the absurdity of the situation and at his own histrionic reaction. His stomach aches by the time he catches his breath, and he shakes his head, fingers dragging through his hair. "Technology is shit," he adds after finally posting his blog entry and tossing his phone to the side, just as hands find his hips and pin him down against the mattress.   
  
"I always thought you rather liked technology," Atsushi says conversationally as he spreads Hisashi's legs and eases between them, and Hisashi wrinkles his nose, prodding at Atsushi's bicep with the heel of his foot.   
  
"Suck my dick," Hisashi retorts. "I knew someone would use that against me." His sulking ends abruptly though when Atsushi does just that, ducking between his thighs and gorging on him in a way that leaves him dizzy and undone at the seams.  
  
"You feel a bit less tense," Atsushi observes afterward, tucked against him in bed and running a hand along the curve of his shoulder. Hisashi's response is little more than a sated murmur, but it sounds affirming enough, and soon they're both fast asleep, nestled close while the fan blows cool air overhead.   
  
In the morning, Atsushi checks the blog post before Hisashi wakes, and laughs quietly into his cup of tea.

  
  
_Oh well._  
  
_It's fried now, can't do anything about it._  
  
_Guess for now I'll just laugh?_  
  
_Hahaha..._  
  
_Hahahahahaha..._  
  
_Hahahahahahahahahahaha._  
  
_I laughed, and laughed._  
  
_Ow, my belly hurts._  
  
_So..._  
  
_What do I do now?_


End file.
